


i need you like a hurricane

by SafelyCapricious



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Accidental Marriage, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Mob, F/M, Fluff, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-05-05 07:23:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5366345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SafelyCapricious/pseuds/SafelyCapricious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grant sits alone at the table, plate of untouched food cooling in front of his place and the empty seat across from him.</p><p>He sighs and resists the urge to bang his head against the table.</p><p>(Biospecialist Bratva AU)</p><p>I fully intend to keep adding to this, but it can also stay contained as is, so unless there's a cliffhanger will keep being marked complete.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i'm only judging a little

**Author's Note:**

> “I’M ONLY JUDGING A LITTLE.” BIOSPECIALIST PLEASE!
> 
> ASKED BY ANONYMOUS.
> 
> Previously posted on Tumblr

Grant sits alone at the table, plate of untouched food cooling in front of his place and the empty seat across from him.

He sighs and resists the urge to bang his head against the table.

How had this gone so wrong?

He grabs his wine glass and takes a long swallow, not even bothering to savor the ridiculously priced beverage. By the time he's finished his glass, Trip is seated across from him, wordlessly pushing Jemma’s glass across the table to him.

He scowls and shots his second a firm look.

Trip's not cowed even slightly, and raises his hands in a harmless gesture, saying, “Hey, I’m only judging a little. You do what you need to do. That was tragic, man.”

Grant scowls more and grabs the other glass of wine. He finishes it off just as quickly and then stares down at it. She hadn’t even sipped it – hadn’t touched her water either.

He isn't sure how two people could miscommunicate so often. He laughs bitterly to himself. At least his miscommunication hasn't ended with him married to someone he doesn't want to be stuck with.

He pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers and takes a few more deep breaths for good measure before he has enough patience to ask his second in command, “Alright then, what would you have done differently?”

Trip shrugs and stabs at the rapidly cooling pasta. “Did you make sure to call it a date when you asked her to show up?”

Grant slouches down further in his seat and nods into his hand. “Yes. I called it a date when I asked her and when I checked in about it and when I walked her here.”

Trip chews thoughtfully. “And I heard you compliment her.”

Grant groans and rests his head against the back of the chair. He had doubts when he’d seen her still in the outfit she’d been wearing all day – she was gorgeous because she always is and he’d told her so, but it was the same pair of slacks and button up she’d been wearing in the lab. He considered asking if he was early but she’d just blinked at him when he’d asked if she was ready and grabbed her bag and gone with him, and he didn’t want to make a big deal of her not being dressy. Whatever she was comfortable with was what he wants. 

If only she could be comfortable with him.

Trip taps his fingers against the table. “I dunno man, I might’ve said something when she pushed her plate to the side and started showing you notes and mock ups?”

Grant covers his face with a hand so he won't be tempted to do something like shoot Trip in the knee. He likes Trip, he does. It's a bad idea to shoot Trip.

Trip shrugs again. “Or I would’ve said something when she stood up and said she’d leave you before whoever you were having dinner with showed up.”

Maybe it isn't such a bad idea. Trip will survive a shattered kneecap, surely?

Grant grits his teeth hard enough to make noise and Trip freezes for a bare half-second before shoveling down the last of the plate quickly. He stands up and holds up his hands, saying, “How about I go talk to her and figure out how to fix this, huh? I will arrange a nice date for you and the wife and you don’t have to do a thing. Okay? You just finish that bottle of wine.”

By the time Grant has poured himself another glass, Trip is gone.

This one he sips.

He probably deserves it – being left by Jemma on the romantic dinner he planned for them. After all, he had realized she didn't mean to propose marriage in exchange for protection before anything had actually been legalized but he hadn’t stopped it. Hadn’t wanted to. And not just because, as Trip would say, having a wife would make him appear more stable and open up more business prospects. No, he’d wanted the brilliant woman who had known who he was and still stared him down and demanded he protect her and her best friend. He still wants her.

Now if only he can figure out how to woo his goddamn wife.

He finishes the bottle of wine.


	2. i'll never tell you where i hid it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BIOSPECALIST + “I’LL NEVER TELL YOU WHERE I HID IT!” + BRATVA AU (A.K.A. DOMESTIC BLISS PLEASE! :DD)
> 
> ASKED BY SAPPHIREGLYPHS.

Bobbi sashays into the room just as Edwards and Vasquez have finished setting up the table.

Grant arches an eyebrow at the evening gown she’s inexplicably wearing. It’s inexplicable because Mack has been guarding Jemma all day and won’t get off until she goes to bed (which is far later than it should be), and Hunter is on assignment. And without her best friend and boyfriend, respectively, to go out with, Bobbi doesn’t tend to go out. At least, not in a fancy capacity.

And the fact that he knows that – and also knows that Sunil has been making eyes at Kara and she’s ignoring him in favor of Mack, who mostly seems interested in Fitz but no one is sure if that’s meant to be romantic or not – his life has somehow become a teen drama and he is not pleased about it at all. He blames Trip. 

The man tied to the chair laughs and drags Grant’s attention back to the present, although it clearly pains his bruised ribs to do. “What, we gonna play good cop and bad cop?”

Grant leans forward to get the man’s attention before asking, “Who, exactly, do you see playing the role of good cop here?”

Trip, surprisingly, refrains from pointing out the fact that their guest and Edwards are, actually, cops. Although Grant can practically feel him vibrating with the smartass remark.

The thug leers at Bobbi and says, “Why, her of course.”

Grant tilts his head and asks “You think  _The_  Mockingbird is going to play good cop for you?” incredulously.

The man pales rapidly and stares at Bobbi with very different eyes before trying to get his bravado back up.

Bobbi glares at Grant. “Thanks  _boss_.”

He shrugs and leans back against the cool steel of the support beam as she pulls on gloves. “You’re welcome. I know you hate playing soft.”

She drops her glare to shoot him a grin before turning back to her victim, smiling.

Grant is only half listening when she coos, “Why don’t you tell me where it is?” into the dead-man’s ear because Harrison is wringing her hands together and fidgeting in his direction.

He waves a hand and she leans in to say, softly, “Your wife wants to talk to you.”

He nods and gestures at Trip, who he’s sure overheard, and starts for the stairs just in time to hear the man say, “I’ll never tell you where I hid it!” followed by the crunch of a bone and a gurgle of pain.

He mentally gives the man three hours before he breaks; mostly because Bobbi has that “I’m going to enjoy taking my time” look to her tonight, instead of about any belief about the man’s strength of conviction. The man is a dirty cop, he doesn’t have that much strength of conviction except where it pertains to him not ending up dead. And Bobbi is very good at making them realize there are worse alternatives than just dying.

Grant trusts Trip and Bobbi to have it well in hand – and not just because Jemma wants him for something. But that fact might have a bit to do with the fact that he does hurry a bit more than is dignified.

All of his men know better than to mention it.

Jemma is, predictably, in her lab.

Mack shoots him a slightly alarmed look from where he’s standing, holding something together for Fitz while the other man solders something. Grant knew when he assigned Mack guard duty that he’d end up helping around the lab, and he doesn’t mind, so he tries to give him a reassuring head nod. It doesn’t seem to help.

Jemma is standing at the other end of the lab – the far end from the doors – and Grant carefully makes his way to her. The last thing he wants is to accidentally contaminate something that she’s been working on.

Her hands are on her hips and she’s staring down at something on the lab bench. He deliberately starts to smile before she looks up, because according to Trip he can come off as too serious and in his efforts to woo her he’s trying to make her see him in another light.

She doesn’t look up until he’s right at her shoulder and he can see that she’s staring down at an open box of chocolates. His smile gets a little wider. Good, she’d found it. He’d left it in her kitchen with a note that only said ‘To: J, <3 G’. He’d deliberately made sure to get her favorite chocolate – which Hunter had found out during one of his guarding shifts for him.

She arches an eyebrow and waves a hand over the chocolates. “Well?”

He looks at the chocolates again to see if he’s missed something, but no, they all look to be in good order, not stale. Only one is missing. He tilts his head and smiles fondly at his wife. “Well.”

She huffs and shifts her weight. “What do you want me to do with them? You really should’ve included instructions. Do they need testing for drugs? Do you want me to drug them? What are they _for_?”

He blinks and shifts his weight, suddenly feeling wrong footed. He can already hear Trip laughing at him. Mack’s look of alarm makes so much more sense now. How is it possible that he has managed to fuck up giving her chocolate?

“Um,” is all he manages for a moment – her sharp eyes never failing to leave him a little tongue-tied. “They’re for you?”

She rolls her eyes and says, patiently, “Yes. I know they’re for me. What do you want me to do  _with_ them?”

He looks around and realizes that the chocolate that is missing is half dissected across the lab bench, with little vials of various colors and – she was checking it for chemicals or drugs or something.

He clears his throat and tries to remind himself that he’s wooed plenty of women before. Admittedly, mostly that was with a smile and his body and very little talking but – this is his wife. It shouldn’t be that hard.

“They’re for you, to eat.” He says with a bit more confidence.

She shifts back and stares down at them and then up at him in surprise. “What?”

He rubs a hand over his face and offers, “I heard they’re your favorite. So they’re for you. To eat. I mean, you could share them if you’d like, that’s your choice but they aren’t – they aren’t drugged or to be drugged – unless you want to do that? But just…Happy Monday?”

And then he’s beating a hasty retreat because he already knows that Fitz will have spread this around in a few hours and he wants to take some of his aggression out on their captive before Bobbi beats all the answers out of the man.


	3. marry me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ilosttrackofthings said:  
> 28 “Marry me?” for biospec please
> 
> This one gets a touch darker.

At least four ribs are broken – maybe five. He’s got a bullet hole through his left thigh and his right hand is so mangled he’s not sure he’ll ever have it back to it’s old deftness.

None of that matters. Not when she’s holding his left hand in hers.

She has a small cut on her cheek and her eyes are filled with tears. But she’s there and she’s fine.

He tries to smile, but there’s shooting pain and he stops. The Irish are known for being honorable – well, not all of them, but O’Neil is and since he’s in charge…

Still. It had been a risk. Trading himself for her. Telling himself she was fine had been the only way to survive the torture, he hadn’t let himself consider that she could’ve been in the cell next to him.

He’s glad to find out O’Neil held his half of the bargain.

It means that when he comes down on them with everything he is he’ll make it quick, give O’Neil’s loved ones the chance to flee the country maybe.

“Jemma,” he tries to say – it sounds more like a creaky door and she’s making a distressed noise and her fingers are hovering over his cheek. He leans into the touch, not caring that even that hurts, and he smiles at her.

She’s crying in earnest now. “Shhh, don’t – don’t talk, we’ll get you fixed up in no time.”

She’s still a horrible liar.

He tries to swallow, to get some moisture in his throat, before speaking again. “Jemma,” this time it comes out right, like her name, and she moves her hand into his hair. Even that hurts, but he refuses to flinch away from her touch. “Marry me?”

She stares at him, eyes wide, and moves, covering her face with her hand – thankfully not letting go of the grip on his hand, he thinks he might float away without that – her shoulders shake and he can’t tell if she’s laughing or crying.

He tries to reach for her – he doesn’t care that his other hand is a mangled mess – but it doesn’t move. He looks away, just a glance, and sees that it’s been strapped down to the side of the bed. Bobbi is tapping the line he didn’t even realize she’d put in and – well, yes. That explains the floating feeling.

Trip is by his leg, muttering to himself in Russian. Which Grant appreciates, because Jemma shouldn’t be hearing language like that.

Jemma’s face is still covered, but now he can see tears leaking down, and he tries to squeeze her hand to get her attention. It doesn’t seem to work, and though he can still feel the pain there he has some doubts as to if he actually manages to squeeze or just tried to. “Jem, baby, look at me.”

She takes another moment before wiping her eyes with the back of her hand and offering him a wet smile. “We are married, Grant.”

He smiles and tastes blood – he hopes he reopened a cut on the inside of his mouth and she’s not seeing him drip blood, but he can’t really check. “I mean, for real.”

The noise that comes out of her mouth might be a laugh or it might be a sob, and his brain isn’t processing quickly enough to make sense of it before she’s leaning down and resting her forehead against his chest. She’s well above the broken ribs. He moves, carefully, to rest his left hand in her hair. The morphine or whatever Bobbi is using on him is starting to have noticeable effects, and he can’t feel his legs at all.

He can feel the warm weight of Jemma against him.

He wants to tell her that he thinks he loves her, that he can’t imagine life without her, that he’d let them torture him a thousand times before he’d let them touch her. All he manages is to slur her name, mouth not cooperating, before the drugs finally drag him under.

The pain is still there when he wakes up, dulled through the blanket of pain medication but present.

So is Jemma.

Someone has pushed another bed up against his hospital bed and she’s curled up on it, facing him, his now wrapped hand still clutched between hers.


	4. six months earlier (jemma pov)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a timestamp requested for "six months later, or six months earlier" and I decided to go with the six months earlier (from the first chapter) and also from Jemma's point of view.
> 
> Please enjoy.

**“** But **…** How? What did you say?” Fitz’s face is scrunched up in confusion, his hair still sticking at odd angles from how he’s been tugging at it.

“I don’t – I had a speech and then –“ Jemma cuts herself off, not willing to admit that she’d forgotten parts of the very specific speech she’d written, practiced, and memorized when she came face to face with him. He is very pretty and – she had been expecting someone older, in her defense.

“And then?” Fitz’s voice is getting to the slightly painful high-pitched stage and they are, after all, still very close to the building that’s owned by – well, her fiancé.

“And then I proposed. Accidentally.” She covers Fitz’s mouth with her hand before he can say anything else – and hisses the next part, “and he said yes, because it is a smart business move and it will keep us _safe_.”

She says us. She means him. _She’s_ not the one who got on the bad side of the Mafia. She’s just the one who proposed this – albeit potentially dangerous – way to get them out of it. Considering the very graphic threats Fitz has been getting, it’s only a matter of time before one or both of them end up dead – and she doesn’t want to draw that short straw – or for Fitz to draw the short straw for that matter. Really, Jemma just wants them all to make it out of this  _alive_.

Fitz’s words are muffled by her hand, and probably incomprehensible to anyone else, but she’s known him since they were but wee and can correctly interpret him at just about any level of slurred.

“No, I don’t think he’s that kind of man. It’s just a business arrangement, Fitz. Not the one I was expecting, but if it’ll keep us safe,” she says with a shrug and tries not to think about it too much. Because if she blushes – and if she thinks about her fiancé ( _business_ fiancé) in any state of ‘real marriage’, she is going to blush – Fitz is not going to let her hear the end of this.

And also he’ll worry.

She lays the hand that’s not, still, covering Fitz’s mouth on his shoulder and meets his eyes. “I promise, I’ll be fine.”

Jemma can tell he doesn’t believe her, but it’s not like either of them have much of a choice – and it’s clear he knows that too. So he nods, reluctantly, and she releases his mouth, and they head back to the flat to pack up what they need.

Mr. Ward wants them moving into his compound for protection reasons before the end of the week, and it’s Thursday. 

 

***

 

“What will we do if it doesn’t work – if it’s just like the Italians all over again?” she asks, later, while packing up their kitchen. Fitz has gotten distracted and is making a robot – or something similar to a robot – out of junk he’s found in one of the drawers.

“Then I guess I’ll have to go and marry one of the Irish,” he says, not even bothering to look up at her.

She throws a dish towel at him and he does look up, oil smudge on his nose, cross eyed and baffled at the interruption. 

Jemma sighs and goes back to putting away their silverware. He isn’t wrong – the entire city is corrupt, it’s just their bad luck that they ran afoul of it all. Or rather, Fitz’s bad luck. To be fair, he’d been drinking and hadn’t known the man who’d proposed the hypothetical weapon schematic to him had been serious, or part of the Mafia – but threats against them both if he didn’t produce the hypothetical weapon by the end of the month were certainly not to be taken lightly.

“Right,” she says, finally, once she’s tampered her panic slightly with the repetitive motion of wrapping teacups, “like any respecting Irish woman would marry you.” 

And it’s her turn to get a dishtowel in her face.

 

***

 

“I thought you said it was going to be a small ceremony.” Fitz is tugging on her arm and hissing in her ear like she’s going to be able to ignore him if he’s not as obnoxious as he possibly can be.

It’s a distinct possibility however, as when Mr. Triplett told her it would be a ‘intimate’ ceremony she’d assumed something more like a simple signing of documents and yet here she is, having been shoved into a dress by a forceful blond, holding a bouquet with Fitz at her elbow and an entire church full of people she’s never seen before, and so she’s having trouble taking much in. Including Fitz whispering in her ear.

Well, that’s not true – she does recognize some of the faces.

The blond who manhandled her into her dress – it is a _lovely_ dress, ivory and cream silk that fits remarkably well – is one of her bridesmaids, as well as two women she doesn’t know. The groom, at the front of the church, him she recognizes as well, and Mr. Triplett is at his side.

Of those faces turned to stare at her, well, it’s the elite of the city – or at least the elite that is on the side of the Russians, she supposes – and she recognizes many of them from the papers.

“Oh,” is all she can say when the music changes and she and Fitz are being herded forward and – is Fitz her father in this situation?

Bollocks. She’s going to have to tell her parents she got married and they weren’t invited.

She nibbles her lip as she walks sedately down the aisle and wonders if she’ll be able to convince them of – her mind blanks and she cannot come up with a reason other than the truth that she’d be getting married in such a rush to someone she’d just met.

She can’t tell them she’s pregnant. And not just because she's terrible at lying – what would she do in nine months? Or even four when she should really be showing and...

Somehow she gets to the altar while she’s contemplating her options, and when Fitz hands her off to Mr. Ward – he seems to have gotten over his shock and is behaving as if he was expecting all of this to happen now – she looks back at the audience and –

There are her parents. Her mother has a handkerchief pressed under her eye and is smiling wide enough to split her face and her dad is also teary eyed and –

She turns towards Mr. Ward, her eyes wide, and he squeezes her hands and smiles at her – her heart lurches uncomfortably in her chest – and then the priest is calling their attention and she turns to face the altar.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find my writing tumblr [here](http://capriciouswrites.tumblr.com/). <3 Prompts are always welcome! Come say hi!


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